Jessica Morey-Collins



After scaling the grid with shrill jolts, you pizza-folded the panorama
and shoved it in whole. That postprandial nap snapped time itself. I
have tried, repeatedly, to reason with you. But here we are, dangling
over forever. You’ve leapt at less. Ceded to breeze-shifts. Listen—
there’s reason to believe in warmth. A case for staying alive. This
tongue will bloom again against a melon’s flesh in summer; bells will
toll both buttered rolls and burnt ones. Nobody understands love
but look at them acting like they’ll raft you with it—their lungs
pump it (love, love, love) and flimsily, it lofts you over your own
slosh and yip. All the while love’s effervescent threat of dissolution
fizzes. The yips rip flesh mere inches under. Your earth crisps and
purges magma, and at that behest I grit my bones. After balking me
from what I know—laughter happens and will happen again and
jasmine clings to starlight—you throw, and throw, and throw.


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